


left hanging

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: sirius_black, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies, Evan is Not Nice, Gags, Light Bondage, M/M, One Night Stands, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Sex in wartime is sweeter than peace... or, it would be, if his partner weren’t a psychopathic bastard.





	left hanging

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 [Sirius Black Fest](https://sirius-black.livejournal.com/303624.html), for prompt [#79](https://sirius-blk.dreamwidth.org/299679.html?thread=1042847#cmt1042847). I had a lot of fun with this, so I really hope you like it!

It takes exactly two hours and thirty-three minutes after entering the bar for Sirius to follow Rosier up a dingy flight of stairs and into one of the small, single rooms that sit above the main establishment.

Sirius can’t say why he does it. He knows it’s wrong—knows it’s dangerous, knows James and Remus would kick his ass if they’d seen who it was he ran off with—but he hadn’t wanted to say no. He feels an inexplicable pull toward Rosier; something that draws him to the other man, something that makes him _want_.

And, _fuck_. There is only so much teasing he can take. Rosier had seemed to follow him throughout the night, had seemed to be there every time he turned his head—like a shadow, almost; like an animal hunting its prey. Sirius had passed it off as coincidence—had labelled the brush of a hand against his lower back an accident, the press of a body against his on the dance floor unintentional—but there’d been no denying it when Evan had followed him to the bathroom, when he’d pressed him against the wall and leaned in close; so close his breath had tickled Sirius’ face, his neck. Had set his skin alight.

Rosier had grinned at him, and it’d been wicked—it’d been feral. His top lip had pulled back to expose a glimpse of sharp, white teeth, and Sirius had been hit with the realisation that Rosier could likely tear him apart—that he could make Sirius think he asked for it, that he could make Sirius _enjoy_ it.

That realisation should have made him turn away, but it hadn’t. It’d made him squirm, had made him want to rise to the challenge; and when Rosier had flashed a key, when he’d mentioned the rooms above, when he’d ran his tongue across his top row of teeth and invited Sirius up—well.

Who was he to say no?

It’s how he finds himself here, now, with his back pressed to a new wall, with Rosier’s mouth on his. Evan kisses exactly how Sirius had expected him to—forceful, passionate, like his life might just depend on it. He devours Sirius’ mouth, kisses him until his lips are red and plush with the pressure, until Sirius’ breath comes in short, loud pants that make his chest rise and fall with effort. And once they start, Sirius doesn’t want to stop—there is something addictive about Rosier, something that makes him crave more.

When a hand reaches to tear away his jacket, Sirius doesn’t resist. He shrugs out of it, helps Rosier pull it off and chucks it to the side. His shirt follows only moments after, and then Rosier’s mouth is back on him; is kissing down his neck, is biting at his collarbones, is leaving little, bright red marks in his wake. Sirius arches under the touch, tangles his fingers in the messy blond curls that sit atop Evan’s head.

By the time Rosier reaches for his trousers, Sirius is already hard. His cock bulges in his pants, thick and full and begging to be touched, and Rosier places his palm to the fabric, presses down with a teasing touch.

“Didn’t think you’d be so easy,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across Sirius’ cheekbone, and Sirius _wants_ to say something smart, but all that comes out is a needy little sigh when Rosier presses down harder.

Sirius feels Rosier’s lips pull to a grin, and then the other man is stepping back, is reaching for the fastenings of his own cloak.

“Bed,” Rosier says, tilting his head in the direction of the pathetic looking double mattress, and Sirius goes; kicking his shoes off in the process and pulling his pants the rest of the way off. He chucks his wand on the bedside table—keeps it within reach, just in case—and settles on the mattress; gaze immediately zeroing in on where Evan is undressing.

Rosier’s a fit bloke, even if he is mad as a bloody hatter. Sirius had thought so back at school, he’d just never wanted to admit it. It’s hard not to think so now, though; not when he’s faced with it.

He’s the conventionally attractive type, Sirius thinks—all lean lines and pretty smiles. Ashy blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Light brown skin that spans over a strong build, not a fucking flaw in sight. He got the best from both his parents, and although Sirius isn’t exactly _shallow_ , it’s not bad for a one night stand.

Rosier doesn’t undress completely, though; his shirt stays on, his trousers, too. He does undo some of his buttons—lets Sirius get a glimpse of the defined chest underneath. Sirius knows why he keeps it on, knows that there’s likely a Dark Mark hidden under the expensive fabric, and that thought _should_ unsettle him, Sirius thinks. It _should_ send him running, should make him call for an Auror or two, but it doesn’t. It just adds to the danger, to the thrill.

He’s always been one for _thrill._

His gaze drops to the waistline of Rosier’s trousers. A cock peaks out from the fabric, the tip reddened and leaking, and Sirius licks at his lips; squirms with anticipation.

Rosier wastes no time once he’s on the bed. He kneels above Sirius, reclaims his mouth, kisses him until they’re both breathless. Sirius grabs him by his hair once again, lets the silky locks slide between his fingers, guides Rosier’s head from his mouth to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Evan follows his lead at first—licking and kissing and nipping his way down Sirius’ body. He pays particular attention to Sirius’ nipples, seems to enjoy the way Sirius reacts to it; to the way he arches under him, to the way he moans, the way his body all but begs for more. At a particularly hard pull of his hair, though, Rosier stops what he’s doing, sits up.

“Why don’t we...” Rosier starts, his voice a low murmur. He doesn’t finish the sentence, just pulls his wand from his back pocket and grabs Sirius’ left wrist.

Sirius starts leaning toward his own wand, thinks that maybe Rosier is going to try and pull something, but then he’s pressing Sirius’ wrist to the headboard, is murmuring a spell to make binds shoot out from the tip of his wand, is making them wind around Sirius’ forearm until it’s securely restrained. Rosier reaches for his right hand after that, and there’s a voice at the back of Sirius’ head that tells him he probably shouldn’t let Rosier do it, that being tied up and at the mercy of a _Death Eater_ isn’t the smartest thing to do, but Sirius ignores it. Any rationale had left him about three drinks ago, and now all he really wants to do is finish what they’ve started.

Once satisfied, Rosier returns his attention to Sirius’ body. Sirius sighs when hands settle on his waist, when Rosier’s mouth starts kissing down his torso again. He places soft, wet kisses down the lines of Sirius’ body, stops every now and then to leave little bite marks that will surely remain in the days to come. Sirius leans in to every touch, enjoys the back and forth of Rosier’s actions.

When Rosier runs his tongue along Sirius’ lower abdomen, Sirius’ stomach jolts, a low groan escaping his mouth. His cock is leaking, drops of precome collecting at the tip. He can’t stop thinking of how good Rosier’s mouth will feel around him, can’t help but wonder if Rosier would let him fuck his face, would let Sirius make him gag and choke.

But then, when he reaches it, Rosier skips the obvious erection; chooses instead to spread Sirius’ thighs, to kiss and nip and lick at the flesh there. Sirius groans again—frustration, this time—and Rosier chuckles against his inner thigh, looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Patience,” he mumbles, and Sirius half wants to punch his fucking teeth in.

Rosier continues to take his time, continues to torture Sirius with too slow touches. When he does eventually swallow Sirius’ cock down—his tongue licking up the underside of the shaft, across the vein, over the slit—Sirius almost feels like he could come. Part of him wishes his hands weren’t bound, wishes he could hold onto Rosier’s hair and control his movements, but the other part likes the restrictions—likes that he can do little more than accept what Rosier has to offer.

Evan is more talented than Sirius had anticipated, and it’s only minutes before he’s motioning for Rosier to stop, to pull back. Rosier almost looks disappointed, but then he’s smiling again, is sitting up and settling on top of him. “I think…” he starts, trailing off again, and Sirius doesn’t know what to expect. He watches as Rosier grabs his wand again, as he conjures a makeshift gag out of thin air. Sirius arches an eyebrow at him, unsure.

“These rooms don’t allow silencing charms,” Rosier explains. “And you’re rather loud.”

It seems like a lie—and it probably is, Sirius thinks—but he still opens his mouth, still lets Rosier gag him. He can’t deny that he likes this; that sometimes he enjoys being the one tied up and taken care of. _Selfish_ , James always jokes, but Sirius doesn’t see how anyone could _not_ like it.

Rosier checks the binds, makes sure they’re still secure. When he’s happy, he shimmies back down the bed, returns his attention to Sirius.

Evan uses a spell to prepare him, and Sirius is glad he does. He’s not usually fond of them, but just the thought of having Rosier open him up with the same attention to detail as he’s done everything else is enough to make Sirius’ stomach flip. He knows he wouldn’t last through it, and he actually _wants_ to get fucked. To feel Rosier inside of him.

Rosier pushes his knees up, presses them close to his chest, and Sirius moans when he slides his hands over his inner thighs and down to his ass, when fingers grab the mound of flesh and tease. Evan brushes his opening with a finger, presses two inside gently; the touch not anywhere near enough to satisfy Sirius, but more than good enough to torture him. He squirms, tries to push down, but Rosier’s only response is a quiet laugh.

It feels like forever passes before Rosier’s cock is sliding between his cheeks, before the tip is pressing against his entrance, opening him up. Rosier thrusts forward with a slow rock of his hips, makes Sirius feel every inch of him, and it _burns;_ the stretch absolutely delightful. Sirius lets out a content groan, revels in Rosier’s strained breathing, in his stifled moans.

Rosier isn’t slow after that, nor careful. He loses himself in Sirius’ body; moves in and out of with reckless abandon. Rosier’s focus seems to shift from Sirius’ pleasure to his own, and though it’s still mostly enjoyable, there are moments where Sirius almost wishes he’d slow down, would maybe show a little more caution. Still, it’s far from the worst shag he’s ever had.

Rosier’s thrusts grow erratic quickly enough, his steady rhythm turning to something jerky and disjointed. His hand curls around Sirius’ cock, works it in time with his thrusts, brings him close to the edge—but when Sirius feels his climax approaching, Rosier removes his hand, eases him back down. It’s as infuriating as it is pleasing, and Sirius is almost embarrassed by the muffled, obscenity-laced moans that make it out past his gag.

Rosier comes first. His body stops, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Fingers dig into Sirius’ waist, so tight they hurt, and Sirius stills, too. Rosier comes inside of him; stays where he is while he takes a moment to calm down. Sirius can hear his heavy breaths, can feel his chest rise and fall.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but Rosier pulling out and smearing his come across Sirius’ skin isn’t exactly it. Sirius can feel it—can feel it trickle out of him. It’s both uncomfortable and hot. He tries to talk, tries to remind him that _hey_ , _he’s not really finished yet_ , but the words are mostly unintelligible.

Rosier looks up at the noise, and his grin from before is back—feral and wicked. The softer side of him is gone, the person who seemed to enjoy showering Sirius in affection vanished, and Sirius gets a sinking feeling in his gut—is hit with just _how_ stupid he was for thinking this could end in anything remotely good.

“What,” Rosier starts, sliding off the bed. He moves to stand at Sirius’ side, his gaze flicking from Sirius’ still hard prick to the look on his face. “Are you worried?”

Sirius glares at him, but it has no effect.

“Come, now, puppy,” Rosier continues. “What did you think was going to happen?”

There is something mocking about his tone, now. Something condescending. Sirius tries to talk around the piece of fabric lodged in his mouth, his wrists pulling at his restraints in an attempt to move, but the words are jumbled. Unintelligible. Rosier looks at him from where he’s redressing, his mouth still upturned in a seedy little grin.

“Aw,” he coos. “Look at you. So _sweet_.” Sirius watches him pull his cloak on, watches him clean himself with a flick of his wand. “I almost feel bad.”

A low chuckle follows—undoubtedly mocking—and Sirius can feel the rage bubble inside of him, can feel it take over the arousal. He tries to get an arm free, tries to summon his wand, but nothing works.

Rosier seems to understand what he’s trying to do, so he walks around the bed, picks up the wand from the table. His expression is faux sympathetic when he looks at Sirius, his bottom lip stuck out in an over exaggerated pout.

“Do you want it?” he asks, as if teasing a child.

The charm from earlier is gone entirely, and Sirius is faced with a more familiar Evan—with the psychotic, sociopathic piece of shit he’d been in their seventh year. Sirius tries to lunge at him, but it isn’t very successful. Rosier steps back, his head shaking in a display of disapproval, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth in a quiet tut.

“Now, now,” he murmurs. “You have to ask nicely.”

There’s a sadistic glint to his eye, now. A mix of cruelty and amusement. Sirius tries to lunge a second time, but it’s as unsuccessful as the first. The restraints are too secure, too tight—he’s hardly going to be able to movie without help. He could try Padfoot, Sirius thinks, only he’s not so sure how the binds will affect the transformation, and being spread out in dog form doesn’t sound particularly appealing.

“No?” Rosier asks, head tilting. He’d taken another step back at Sirius’ second lunge, but he’s still smiling. Still seems amused at the state of affairs. “Pity,” he continues, and Sirius watches on with an ever-increasing rage as Rosier drops his wand to the floor, as he kicks it as far from Sirius as the room allows.

He starts toward the door after that, barely acknowledging the muffled string of curses that fall from Sirius’ mouth. Sirius’ gut sinks when he realises he’s going to be left like this, that Rosier intends to have him found by anyone who dares to walk in. He pulls at his binds again, hopes against hope that something will work in his fucking favour, but they still don’t budge.

Rosier turns in the doorway, looking far too pleased with himself. “Maybe I should send the half-breed up, hm?” he says, laughing when Sirius’ eyes widen. “I’m sure he’d take good care of you.”

He winks at Sirius, a final infuriating act, and then he’s gone—mocking laugh fading into the loud music from downstairs, leaving Sirius helpless and alone; still bound and covered in evidence of their activities, with little to no hope of getting himself out of there without help.


End file.
